BREACHING BARRICADES
by Vanessa Sgroi
Summary: Set immediately after "Sex and Violence". The Winchester Brothers must try and deal with the fallout from their cruel words while under the Siren's influence. Despite Dean's words at the end, they're not okay. Not yet. Written for auction winner bhoney.
1. Watching Sugar Melt

This story was written for bhoney, the winning bidder for me at the Support Stacie Author Auction, April 4-6, 2009. She asked to see fallout from the final events in the episode "Sex and Violence". I hope I'm doing it justice.

Disclaimer: None of the characters, or anything related to Supernatural, belong to me. Just having a little fun.

* * *

**Breaching Barricades**

**By: Vanessa Sgroi**

Breaching Barricades

A crafty and resolute  
breaching of barricades.  
Finely-honed words  
cut deeper and with  
far more precision  
than any favored knife.  
Weaponry whose whisper  
is far more devastating  
for their smooth edges.

© 2009, Vanessa Sgroi

* * *

_You're too weak… You're holding me back. I'm…better…than you… stronger, smarter…you're too scared… You're too busy sitting around feeling sorry for yourself, whining about…Hell. Boo Hoo._

_You're weak. You're holding me back. You're scared. Whining about your time in Hell. Boo Hoo. You're weak. You're holding me back. You're scared. Whining about your time in Hell. Boo Hoo. __**You're**__ weak. __**You're**__ holding me back. You're scared. __**Whining**__ about your time in __**Hell**__. __**Boo Hoo.**__ You are __**weak**__. You are __**holding**__ me back. You are __**scared**__. __**Whining about your time in**__**Hell**__. __**Boo Hoo**__._

_Weak._

_Scared._

_Whiny._

_Sniveling._

_Pathetic._

_Boo Hoo._

_Boo._

_Hoo._

Ears and mind full of the tintinnabulous echoes of his brother's earlier words, Dean Winchester shoved back the covers on the bed and sat, dropping his feet to the floor. The carpet beneath his bare toes was shabby and oddly sticky. He resisted the urge to pull his knees up, ignored the less than pleasant feel, and stood, slowly making his way to the bathroom in the semi-darkness; the flickering neon of the Sunset View Motel provided a modicum of rather eerie illumination.

Once inside, he firmly shut the door and flipped on the light; completely avoiding looking in the chipped mirror clinging crookedly to the wall, unwilling to see the inferior man reflected back. Instead Dean twisted the right hand knob on the sink and sluiced cold water across his face, relishing the cold bite. After a couple of moments, he cupped his hands and sipped, the liquid soothing his dry throat.

Forgoing a towel, Dean swiped his t-shirt down his face and slipped from the bathroom. With a forlorn sigh, the hunter crawled back onto the bed, sitting with his back against the headboard. Drawing his knees up, he let his gaze rest on his brother, Sam, sprawled in the adjacent bed, and found himself envious of the younger man's unencumbered slumber. Despite the fact that he was crazy sore from their earlier fight and beyond tired from driving the day away, Dean couldn't sleep. Sleep meant persistent, haunting nightmares. And somewhere along their monotonous trek along the highways, between the white and yellow lines, Dean came to the conclusion that sleep paved the way for the physical manifestations, provided the ammunition, which proved the truth of Sam's Siren-bolstered words.

He spent the rest of the night watching Sam sleep and listening to the internal non-stop loop of taunting words that had passed across his baby brother's lips.

_You're too weak… You're holding me back. I'm…better…than you… stronger, smarter…you're too scared… You're too busy sitting around feeling sorry for yourself, whining about…Hell. Boo Hoo._

_You're weak. You're holding me back. You're scared. Whining about your time in Hell. Boo Hoo. You're weak. You're holding me back. You're scared. Whining about your time in Hell. Boo Hoo. __**You're**__ weak. __**You're**__ holding me back. You're scared. __**Whining**__ about your time in __**Hell**__. __**Boo Hoo.**__ You are __**weak**__. You are __**holding**__ me back. You are __**scared**__. __**Whining about your time in**__**Hell**__. __**Boo Hoo**__._

_Weak._

_Scared._

_Whiny._

_Sniveling._

_Pathetic._

_Boo Hoo._

_Boo._

_Hoo._

(SN) (SN) (SN)

Dean slid stiffly into the padded booth, tossing a half smile in the waitress's direction as he dropped his elbows on the table.

She smiled back and offered a breezy, "What can I get for you fellas?"

"Coffee first. Hot, black, and lots of it," responded Dean, automatically flipping over the brown stoneware mug next to his paper placemat and napkin-rolled cutlery.

"Coffee for you too, hon." She raised a brow in inquiry.

Sam nodded and turned over his own cup.

"Lemme just grab that for you while you guys look at the menu, okay?"

As she hurried away, Sam grabbed a menu from its slot, noticing right away that his brother didn't bother. "Aren't you gonna look?"

"Nope."

The younger man shifted restlessly on his side of the booth. Dean wasn't talking to him. Hadn't said more than a dozen words since his generic assurance of "Yeah, we're good" after the Siren incident yesterday morning. Sam hated the silence. _Hated_ it. And felt guilt-ridden because his own words, no matter how twisted and corrupted by the Siren, brought it about.

"Dean, are you…are you sure we're okay? I mean, after yesterday?"

"Said we were, didn't I? You accusin' me of lyin', Sam?"

Sam's gaze dropped to the menu, the ache in his chest expanding.

"Here you go, boys. Fresh and hot for ya." The waitress, Annie according to the embroidered cursive on her uniform, deftly filled their waiting mugs with the aromatic brew. "You ready to order?" She sat the steaming pot down on the table and drew her pen and order pad from a pocket on her apron.

Dean swallowed a mouthful of coffee. "I'd like a bowl of oatmeal with lots of brown sugar on the side and a glass of orange juice."

She nodded as she scribbled on her pad. "And you?"

Sam, whose focus was back on his brother and his unusual breakfast order, snapped his menu closed. "I'll have the buckwheat pancakes, please."

"Good choice; we have the best around. I'll get this right in for you." The waitress again sashayed away, stopping to fill a couple of coffee mugs on her journey to the kitchen.

"Oatmeal?"

"Yeah, what about it?" Dean's tone held a hint of belligerence.

Sam frowned in concern. "You feeling all right?"

"How about you just concentrate on finding us a new hunt?" Dean knew his words were cold, callous even, but he couldn't seem to stop them from tumbling past his lips—not a new occurrence of late.

"I'm just worried about you," Sam tacked a frustrated sigh onto his statement.

_You're weak. You're holding me back. You're scared. Whining about your time in Hell. Boo Hoo. _"Don't be."

Sam opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by the chirp of his cell phone. He ignored the summons.

"You gonna get that?"

The younger hunter reluctantly pulled his phone from the jacket pocket, glanced at caller ID, and carefully schooled his features. _Ruby._ "Hello?" He made a face and quickly closed the phone with a casual shrug. "Spam call—one of those stupid car warranty calls." Sam shoved his cell back in his pocket.

"Uh huh." Dean's expression clearly broadcast his disbelief.

To Sam's relief, the waitress chose that moment to return with their food.

"Here you go, gentlemen." She placed Sam's plate of pancakes down then Dean's bowl. She plunked maple syrup and Dean's orange juice and side of brown sugar down next. "Refills on the coffee?"

Dean immediately nodded, dumping the sugar on his steaming oatmeal as Annie moved away. He stirred the thick concoction, watched the tan crystals melt into swirls of amber.

"Dean—"

"Just find us something to keep us busy until the next installment of Apocalypse Now, Sam, okay?" He kept his attention focused on the hot cereal in front of him while he listened to the laptop ping and whirl as it booted.

Between enormous bites of his syrup-laden flapjacks, Sam read from the screen, "Four people missing in De Pere, Wisconsin. Car was found with doors wide open, still running but no keys in the ignition." When Dean merely nodded, the younger man huffed out a breath, called up the next page, and continued, "Here's a report of mysterious lights and animal sightings in the woods of the Red Willow Reservoir State Recreation Area in McCook, Nebraska." A click of the mouse brought up another webpage, and Sam allowed a small smile to grace his face. This ought to get Dean's attention. "Or there's the 180-year-old bar in Cuchillo, New Mexico, that might be haunted."

Dean finally looked up from the now-cold-and-gummy oatmeal he'd been doing nothing more than playing with and rubbed forcefully at his tired eyes. "Pick one. I'm gonna hit the head then we'll get on the road to wherever." He downed the remainder of his orange juice, dug out his wallet, and dropped money on the table before he slid out of the booth.

Frustrated and a little annoyed, Sam closed the laptop with an emphatic click, swallowed the last of his coffee and headed out to the Impala to await his brother.

TBC…


	2. Stumbling Ahead

The greens and golds of the Nebraskan countryside blurred and melded into pale watercolor whirls outside the Impala's windows. Dean tightened his right hand on the steering wheel and reached for the coffee cup braced between his thighs with his left, grimacing as he swallowed the ice cold dregs.

It was only a nine and a half hour drive from Rochester, Minnesota, to McCook, Nebraska, but it felt like more—much more. Each additional minute behind the wheel was becoming more excruciating. His eyes felt like they were full of ground glass and his muscles and joints were burning with a bone-deep ache as his body cried out for rest.

"So where's this reservoir place?" They were the first words he'd spoken in four hours, the last being a curt demand for a map check for the nearest place to make a pit stop and grab more coffee.

There was a rustle of paper as Sam yanked out their well-used, crumpled map. "There's a turn off about four miles up the road. We wanna go left."

Thick silence descended again as Dean tossed his now-empty cup into the backseat. He pinched the bridge of his nose to push back the dull ache that had taken up residence there, resisting the urge to reflexively close his eyes.

After a few minutes, Sam said in a low voice, "Uh, Dean?" Sam waited for a response and when none was forthcoming, he reached over and nudged his brother's shoulder. "Hey?"

Dean jumped and growled, "What?"

"You missed the turn back there."

The older Winchester muttered an expletive and pulled over. After assuring the coast was clear, he made a u-turn and backtracked.

A few minutes later, Dean pulled into the parking lot of the Red Willow Sleeper, a run-down little motel tucked just off the road on the outskirts of McCook, about nine miles from one of the eastern entrances of the state recreation area.

"We're staying here?" It was a stupid question, and Sam knew it the minute it left his mouth.

"Unless _you_ wanna camp out at the campground in the park in the invisible tent we have in the trunk. I'm sure as hell not."

"Want me to get us the room?" It was yet another flimsy olive branch. One of many he'd been extending all day.

"No."

Sam bit his lip and watched as Dean stalked toward the motel office, frowning when he saw his always-sure-footed brother stumble slightly over a curb. As he pushed his way out of the passenger door, the young hunter wished, not for the first time, that he could get Dean to talk about the Siren incident, but Sam knew the days of getting his older sibling to open up were likely done for good after having everything thrown back in his face the way he had. Sure, Dean's comments to him had been uncalled for and hurtful, but Sam couldn't help but acknowledge that they hadn't contained nearly the amount of acid that Sam's own retorts had. And though the underlying words were still somewhat truthful, the Siren had infused every syllable with a destructive poison meant to scar Dean deeply. Sam very much wanted to make up for it but just didn't know how. He was pulled from his reverie by Dean's return.

Dean opened the trunk and pulled out his bag and the weapons bag, turning and leaving Sam to follow without a word. He knew he was being a jerk but for the moment he still couldn't push past the crushing hurt Sam had inflicted.

Inside the room, the brothers dropped their bags on their respective beds nearly simultaneously. Sam's stomach growled as he straightened. The candy bar he'd downed at their last pit stop was but a fleeting memory to his stomach. "You wanna go grab something to eat?"

"Not really. Gonna grab a shower." Dean rummaged through his duffel for a clean t-shirt, deciding to just re-wear the jeans he had on as they'd been clean when he dressed this morning.

"Okay. Well, why don't I run out and get us something while you shower. We can eat and do some research."

Dean waved a hand in half-hearted agreement as he walked toward the bathroom. "Yeah, whatever. Just bring me some coffee. Extra large if they've got it."

Sam opened his mouth to ask if that was such a good idea but ultimately refrained from voicing the words. His brother was looking frayed around the edges, pale with dark circles under his eyes. At the moment, he didn't have the heart to exacerbate their situation any further. Instead he snatched the keys up off the bed where Dean had dropped them and hurried out the door.

Once inside the bathroom, Dean cranked on the faucet and quickly stripped, sliding underneath the surprisingly steady stream of hot water with a sigh. The water eased some of the deep ache but did nothing for the fine tremors wracking his limbs. He ducked his head under the cascade and let his mask of indifference melt away—a few wayward tears mixing with the stream of moisture. It wasn't just that Sam thought he was weak, that he was whiny, that he was _holding him back_; what hurt the worst was that his little brother didn't need him anymore, didn't even want him around anymore. He'd easily found a replacement in Ruby. And it felt like every shred of humanity he'd tried to hold onto in Hell for Sam's sake was for nothing. Dean was adrift. The hunter slammed a fist into tile.

After several long minutes, Dean turned the faucet all the way to the right, letting the shock of cold water push back exhaustion just a bit before reluctantly terminating the flow. Stepping from the tub, Dean steadied himself with a hand on the wall as a touch of lightheadedness made the room spin for a moment. Grunting in annoyance, he dried off and re-dressed, leaving the bathroom only when fully clothed, suddenly and unreasonably self-conscious of appearing partially undressed in front of Sam.

It didn't matter, though, as the outer room was still devoid of gigantic little brothers when he stepped through the door enshrouded in a cloud of leftover steam. Dean shivered slightly at the abrupt temperature change.

Eyeing the bed, the older Winchester contemplated lying down and closing his eyes, sleeping until Sam returned with the coffee. He actually took two steps forward then froze.

_What? Fall asleep and have him find you, huh? Wouldn't that be sweet? Have him find you in the midst of another nightmare yet again? He'd see you whimpering, fidgeting, crying out. Maybe even begging…just like you did in Hell. Then what? You think he'd take pity on you? No. He'd look at you in disgust. _

Dean veered off course and grabbed a brochure off the TV stand. He sank down in one of the rickety chairs near the window. He opened it and started reading.

_**Located 11 miles north of McCook in southwest Frontier County, Red Willow was completed in 1962. Some of the finest fishing and hunting in the state are found here, and the Commission has built some excellent facilities for camping and water-oriented recreation. At the top conservation pool, the lake covers 1,628 acres of the some 6,000 acres managed for public recreation and wildlife. Dedicated bass fishermen are well-acquainted with its brushy shores (35 miles of them), submerged trees, and underwater structures. Red Willow is a haven for both largemouth and smallmouth bass.**_

_**All visitors seem to enjoy the antics of the resident prairie dogs. Their town near Spring Creek is protected to insure they will continue to be around the area for the public to observe. Another special attraction at Red Willow is the longhorn cattle display, which recalls the days when huge herds of these rangy animals made the hard journey up the old Texas Trail. **_

For a brief moment, Dean heartily wished they were just two brothers out for some innocent recreation, wished they were actually here to watch the antics of the prairie dogs. With a disgusted grunt, he pushed the totally random, totally ridiculous, and ultimately stupid thoughts out of his mind and threw the brochure across the room.

TBC…


	3. Fanfreakin'tastic

Sam's return was heralded by the scents of deep-fried food and spice. He pushed through the door with two stuffed brown bags and a cardboard cup tray holding a super-sized soda and coffee. The tall, lanky hunter deposited the stuff on the small table next to the computer before shrugging out of his jacket. Apparently, his brother was engrossed in whatever was on the laptop's screen since he didn't react at all to Sam's arrival.

He pushed Dean's dinner and coffee toward him before shoving a hand in his own bag and extracting two Styrofoam containers. He lifted the lid on one and downed one of his double-order Chicken Fritters in two bites. Pausing to open the little tub of honey-mustard dip, he glanced at Dean and offered, "I got you a bacon double cheeseburger with extra onions and extra spicy Cajun fries. Hope that's okay."

He waited a second for Dean to respond. When he didn't, Sam nudged him. "Earth to Dean—food's here!"

Dean finally blinked and looked up from the computer, reached for his coffee with a shaky hand.

"What's so interesting on the computer?" Sam picked up another chicken finger, dipped it in the sauce, and demolished it, licking away a stray dribble of sticky honey mustard that had wound its way down his index finger, savoring its sweet and sour tang.

"What?"

Sam bit back a half-irritated, half-forlorn sigh and repeated his question.

The older Winchester looked back at the computer screen with a slight frown. "I dunno. Was just looking up some things about the reservoir." He reached listlessly for his bag and pulled out his food. "Didn't find much more than what's printed in the brochure there," Dean thrust his chin in the direction of the brochure he'd picked up off floor after throwing it a little bit ago. Unwrapping the red-and-silver foil from around his sandwich, he took a bite. After chewing and swallowing the one mouthful, which tasted far too keenly of seared flesh and ash, he dropped the cheeseburger back down onto the foil and pushed it away. Ignoring the fries, Dean reached for the tall cup of coffee, pulled off the plastic lid, and took a long draught. The hot, somewhat bitter, liquid seared its way down his esophagus and spilled into a stomach already full of acid and self-recrimination.

Pulling on the straw in his drink, Sam's gaze flicked between the indicated brochure and the computer screen. "I did a little bit of asking around while I was waiting for the food. Both the waitress and the cook at the diner were chatty." He lifted the lid on his second smaller Styrofoam container and popped a fried mushroom in his mouth.

Dean raised an eyebrow that clearly said "Oh?" and motioned with his hand for Sam to continue.

"So there have been quite a few sightings of some strange animal or animals in the woods just like that article said. And last night a fisherman claims he was mauled by the creature."

"What makes you think this is our kind of gig?"

"By the descriptions that have been given. According to the waitress, who's heard people talking, they swear this thing is as big as a dog but has the face of a cat and a bushy tail. And, according to that fisherman who was mauled, sharp nails. He told the cook he thinks the thing wanted to eat him."

Dean grimaced and seemed to go a shade paler. "Didn't you say something about mysterious lights too?"

"Oh. Yeah. We can forget that. It was a group of drunk kids on vacation being 'funny'. The sheriff found them and had a talk with 'em."

"So we're hunting some supernatural dog?"

Sam stuffed a French fry in his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and shrugged all at the same time. "Essentially."

The older hunter pushed to his feet, gathering his cooling dinner as he moved and dropped it in the nearby trashcan; the move not going unnoticed by his younger brother. "Super. Now we're Dog Catchers. Whatever pays the bills, right?" Dean huffed and drank more coffee.

Claiming the abandoned chair, Sam began tapping at the keyboard. "I think I might know what this thing is." He glanced over at his brother who was pacing the length of the room before turning his concentration back to the computer. After several minutes, he exclaimed, "Got it! I think it's a Gulon."

"A what?"

"A Gulon. I read about it once somewhere. It's also called a Gulo, Jerff, or a Vielfras. It's described as being as big as a dog with the face of a cat, has very sharp nails, long brown hair, and a tail like a fox."

"Attractive. What the hell is it doing here?"

"Beats me. But these things are gluttons and have a taste for human flesh." Sam turned from the computer. "I think it's only a matter of time before it starts killing people, Dean."

"Then I guess we need to kill it first." He leaned over to grab the weapons bag and had to grit his teeth as the room tilted far more than it should have at the action.

"What're you doing?"

"What's it look like? I'm getting my gun." Dean slumped down on the edge of the bed, undid the zipper of the duffel, and eased his hand inside its depths.

Sam threw his older brother a disbelieving look. "Dean, we don't even know how to kill it yet."

_Oh, right._ Dean sighed impatiently and uncurled his fingers from around the butt of his Colt 1911. "It doesn't say _there_?" He pointed at the computer.

"No. But then I haven't looked that hard yet. I think I might call Bobby first though."

"Get callin' then so we can get this over with." The hunter pressed both palms hard against his burning eyes, listening to the faint beeps as Sam dialed Bobby's number.

"Hey, Bobby, it's Sam. Yeah, yeah—we're doing…okay…listen, I've gotta question for you—what do you know about Gulons?"

Sam's current amiable voice suddenly morphed into the embittered, scathing one brought on by the Siren. _You're weak. You're scared. Whining about your time in Hell. _Then suddenly it wasn't Sam's voice anymore—it was his father's. Dean's breath stuttered in his chest, and he pulled his hands away from his eyes. John Winchester was slouched in the corner of the room, beard-roughened face dark with disgust and mouth twisted in a sneer.

"He's right. You are weak. You're scared. Whining about your time in Hell. I'd just call you pathetic," he hissed.

"No—not you too. Please—not you too," Dean's voice was no more than a whisper.

"Dean?"

A light touch on his shoulder made him jump. He blinked and John was gone.

Sam's brow wrinkled. "Who were you talking to?"

Dean glanced at his brother and then back to the corner where he'd seen his father moments ago. He rubbed a hand over his face. "No one."

The younger Winchester studied his older brother closely, taking in the paleness of his skin, the dark, bruisey-looking circles ringing his glassy green eyes, and the tense slump of his shoulders . "You sure you're okay? You're not looking so hot."

Ignoring Sam's question, Dean said, "What did Bobby say?"

"He's gonna call me back."

"Fan_tastic_."

TBC…


	4. Harken Back to Simpler Times

While waiting for Bobby to return his call, Sam finished his meal and returned to the computer, searching without much luck for more information on the Gulon beyond what he'd already found. The whole time, he watched his older brother out of the corner of his eye. Caffeine was giving him false energy much like liquor gave a cowardly man false courage.

Dean resumed his aimless pacing, becoming fidgety as the muscles twitched and quivered under his skin. He ran a hand through his soft blondish-brown spikes, paused to push his palm against his forehead in a useless attempt to sooth the dull throb that lay beneath, and ran it through his hair again. Without warning, the wallpapered walls surrounding him seemed to undulate and push inward, and Dean felt the phantom lick of flame against his skin. Inexplicably, claustrophobic in the wide open space, he bolted for the door.

Sam jumped at Dean's rapid move toward the exit. "Where're you going?"

"Out."

The younger man opened his mouth to protest, to point out he still had the keys to the Impala in his coat pocket, but Dean was already across the threshold. Sam rose from the chair and crossed the room intending to follow but hesitated at the door, watching as his brother jogged away from the motel.

Deciding to follow Dean anyway regardless of the possible backlash, Sam had one foot out the door when his cell phone chirped from its resting place near the laptop. With a glance at Dean's retreating back, the young hunter sighed, stepped back inside the motel room, and closed the door. He sidled over to the table and grabbed the phone, not bothering to glance at Caller ID.

"Hey, Bobby. Find anything?"

"_Not hardly, wunderkind."_ Instead of Bobby's gruff baritone, Ruby's husky alto filled his ear.

"Ruby."

"_The one and only. Why did you hang up on me this morning?"_

"It wasn't a good time to talk. It's not a good time now either."

"_Ahhh, what happened? Did El Dean-o go all pouty and prissy on you again? He is such a whiny whelp these days."_

"I don't want to talk about Dean." His voice was hard and uncompromising in response to Ruby's taunting, scornful words about his older sibling.

"_Good. I really don't either. What do you want to talk about?"_

"Nothing. I told you—now's not a good time. We'll talk later."

"_Fine,"_ the dark-haired demon's tone was clearly annoyed, _"You and big brother keep performing your supernatural Siegfried and Roy act while Lilith is breaking seals like they're clay pigeons. No skin off my nose."_

A definitive click sounded in Sam's ear signaling Ruby had disconnected. Sam's fingers tightened on the phone until his knuckles were white. He thumbed the _End_ button, startling when the phone rang again immediately. This time Sam made sure it was Bobby before hitting the _Talk_ button.

(SN) (SN) (SN)

Dean hurried away from the motel, grateful to be out of the room. He slowed when he spied a park a short distance from the motel. It was tiny, consisting of two wobbly-looking swing sets, a slide, and one set of monkey bars. Most importantly, the park was empty, and there was a small wooden bench in the back corner by some bushes.

Dean wandered over, sank down onto the faded boards, let loose with a string of curses. He hurt. Inside and out. His head throbbed and his limbs simply felt like lead. But worse was the crushing hurt he still felt at Sam's words. They never seemed to quiet in his mind. They careened around the inside of his skull like the metal marble in a pinball machine. Maybe he felt so devastated because this new cacophony combined with the faint echoes of similar sentiments uttered at Roosevelt Asylum.

"Maybe deep down Sam really does hate me." The quiet words were directed at the green grass beneath his booted feet.

_Yeah, that's why he was suicidal when you went on your all expense paid trip to the deep demonic South. 'Cause he hates you. C'mon, Winchester, pull your head out of your ass._

Sadly, at the moment the calmer, more rational words were wispy and frail and were easily scattered by the tide of stronger, divisive clamor. He grunted and tilted his head backward to rest on the bench, closing his eyes to shut out the world for a brief moment.

"Dean?"

The older Winchester's head snapped up at the sound of his name and found himself staring down at a very familiar face.

(SN) (SN) (SN)

"You got something for me, Bobby?" In his frustration with Ruby, Sam's words were more curt and abrupt than he meant them to be.

There was a beat of silence at the other end of the connection. _"Would I be callin' if I didn't, ya chucklehead?"_

Sam cringed at the edge in the older man's voice. He took a deep breath and let it out in a loud huff, gliding his fingers through his hair. "Sorry."

"_Just so happens I found mention of a Gulon in one of these damn books I have stacked around."_

"I was hoping you would. You put any library to shame."

"_Yeah, well, you were right about them being gluttons. According to legend, they eat to bursting then squeeze between two trees to purge so they can start all over again."_

"Gross."

"_Says here they don't always go for humans. But once they do…well… apparently, it ain't pretty."_

"So how do we kill this thing before it starts on its human all-you-can-eat buffet?"

"_On that front I've got good news and bad news."_

"Why am I not surprised?" Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "What's the good news?"

"_Pepper."_

"What?"

"_Ground black pepper—lots of it. That's what'll kill it."_

"Ooookay, that's a new one—so what's the bad news?"

"_Gotta pour it down this thing's gullet. You boys ever watch steer wrestling? Near as I can figure, it's a bit like that but with lotsa sharp teeth and claws. In this case, one wrestles, the other pours. Oh, and Gulons are nocturnal. They hole up during the day and start their huntin' at sundown."_

"Great. So that's it? We find this thing, wrestle it to the ground, and pour pepper down its throat."

"_From everything I've read, that's it."_

"All right. Thanks, Bobby. I—We—appreciate your help."

"_Don't mention it. Hey, kid," _Bobby went silent for a second_, "how are you and Dean doing? I mean really doing?"_

"Aww, hell, Bobby—I dunno—I can tell you that we're far from okay. Dean's not eating. I'm not sure he's sleeping. And he's pretty much giving new meaning to the phrase 'only speak when you're spoken to'. And with me, not even then."

"_That's not a surprise. You know he didn't speak for months on end after your mother died."_

"I know. But, dammit, Bobby, I've apologized for what I said."

"_Doesn't change the fact that there was a grain of truth to your words, wasn't there? About you thinking he's weak, scared?"_

"Well, yeah, but…"

"_But there was a grain of truth to his words too. And they hurt you just as yours hurt him. I know that, Sam. Underneath it all, I'm sure Dean knows it too. You talk about it. Or you used to. It's your way. He's barricading himself behind his walls like he did all those years ago; it's practically blind instinct with that boy. He hurtin' and since he can't run, he's building up that damn fortress again. My best advice—don't let him. What you both need to remember is that that Siren used your weaknesses against you by twisting every blasted word to suit its vile purposes. And just so you know, the next time I speak with that brother of yours, he's getting the same kick in the ass lecture."_

The youngest Winchester huffed out a small laugh. "Good. He needs it as much as I did. He took off outta here a little bit ago; I think I better go find him. Thanks again, Bobby."

"_Anytime, kid."_

Sam hung up, tucked his cell phone in his pocket as he left to go in search of his brother.

(SN) (SN) (SN)

Six-year-old Sammy was staring back at him, chestnut bangs flopping over his forehead and nearly obscuring his hazel eyes. The kid was standing before him, barefoot and dressed in a set of threadbare Snoopy pajamas.

Dean would have immediately thought "ghost" but it was…well…_Sammy_.

"_I'm sleepy. Can I sit in your lap?"_

The kid gazed at him with such a hopeful look on his face, Dean nodded without thinking. He watched him clamber up on the bench and felt his slight weight settle in his lap. Sammy clutched at his shirt with small fists, cuddled next to him, and rested a cheek against his chest.

"_Can I tell you a secret?"_

"Uhh, sure, I guess."

Sammy motioned for Dean to lean down so he could whisper in his ear.

"_I hadda bad dream, and I'm scared."_

Dean straightened and asked, "What did you dream about?"

A shiver chased its way through the little boy's body. _"You. You disappeerered."_

"I disappeared?"

"_Uh huh,"_ he nodded, _"you were hugging me really tight and th—then you were gone and I was all alone. Even Goober was gone."_

Dean smiled. He remembered Goober, Sam's grungy teddy bear when he was little.

"Well, I don't have Goober, but I'm here now." He settled his arms around the little boy.

"_I know." _Sammy sighed and rubbed his cheek against the soft material of Dean's shirt._ "Can you tell me a story?"_

"What?"

"_Tell me a story. Like you used to when I couldn't sleep."_

"Uhhh, sure, I guess I can do that. What do you wanna hear?"

"_Tell me about mommy being so pretty. Like a princess, right?"_

"Yeah. Yeah, she was."

"Dean?"

The voice was far deeper than the one he'd been listening to for the last little while. Dean's eyes flew open and the warm weight in his lap faded away. His gaze tracked upward then locked on his brother—his fully adult brother—who was looking back at him with a quizzical, and somewhat worried, look on his face.

"Who were you talking to?"

TBC…


	5. A Short Trip to Hell

Dean felt his cheeks warm under his brother's quizzical scrutiny and his gaze dropped to the grass. "Wasn't talking to anyone—just thinkin' out loud," he muttered. He shoved to his feet, stumbling as the world spun drunkenly. He shrugged off Sam's hand when it landed on his shoulder to steady him. Dean eyeballed the deserted park, listened to the wind whisper through the leaves, and suppressed a tiny shiver as the echo of six-year-old Sammy's voice bounced around the inside of his skull. He turned and trudged back toward the motel, leaving Sam to follow in his wake. "Did you find me for a particular reason?"

"No, not really. I was just worried about you."

"Yeah, okay." The sarcasm was thick.

"Dean…"

"You think I'm such a sniveling weakling that I can't take care of myself now?"

"I never said you were a weakling!"

"Yeah, well, close enough."

Sam ran a hand through his dark hair in frustration. "Will you stop being an ass! You're just looking for a fight."

The older hunter snorted. "Whatever."

"Dean…" Risking reprisal, Sam's hand shot out and wrapped around his brother's upper arm, pulling him to a stop. Dean was rigid beneath his touch but Sam could also feel the faint tremors coursing through the muscle. He knew Dean was running on fumes and that that was ratcheting up the tension. "I'm not going to apologize again for the Siren crap. I've apologized a hundred times and it does no good. You're not listening to me. I get it. But the fact is, we both said things that should never have been said." Sam let go of Dean's arm. "We need to move past this."

Had he been thinking more clearly, his mind not clouded with exhaustion, Dean just may have acknowledged the truth of Sam's words. Instead he employed a tried and true trick—one he'd learned well over the years—avoidance and diversion. It had become as natural as breathing.

He started toward the motel once more. "Bobby call?"

Accepting defeat for the time being, Sam answered, "Yeah."

"And?"

"And we kill it with plain ordinary ground black pepper."

"Come again?"

"Ground black pepper. Lots of it."

"What do we do with it? Salt and pepper it and then burn it? It freakin' sounds like we're having a barbeque."

Sam couldn't help it; he laughed. He was grateful to hear the tiniest glimmer of his brother's true self under all the hurt and anger. "The Gulon has to ingest it."

"How the hell do we get this thing to eat pepper?"

"We don't. We pour it down the Gulon's throat. Bobby says it'll be a bit like steer wrestling."

"Well, that's a first. One of us pins it down and the other forces pepper down its throat."

"Pretty much."

"So how do lure it to us?"

"It's attracted to fresh blood. I'm thinking we sprinkle some around as bait, wait for it to show up."

"Fresh blood? I should probably do the donating."

Sam bristled, immediately on the defensive. "Why—because I'm the freak with demon blood flowing through my veins?"

"No—yes—I mean—I dunno." They'd reached the motel room and Dean stood aside while Sam unlocked the door. "I just meant what if—what if yours smells different—or tastes different—to these things?"

Sam wasn't sure what to say at that so he remained silent as he crossed the threshold.

The older man took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I didn't mean it as an insult, Sam."

Sam dropped down on the edge of the bed. "Fine. You're the donor then. I don't think it'll take much."

"So let's go get the pepper and end this puppy."

"We can't. Not yet anyway. It's only active at night."

Dean sighed and looked at his watch. "So we have two—three—hours to kill?"

"I was thinking that…" Sam's voice trailed off.

"Thinking what?" Dean prodded when Sam didn't continue.

"I was thinking that it might be a good idea for us to get some sleep now since we'll probably be up half the night." Sam, who had been purposely studying Dean as he said the words, noticed the flash of panic that flickered on his brother's face before the mask of indifference locked into place again.

Dean shrugged as nonchalantly as he could manage. "Not tired. But if _you_ want to…"

"That's complete and utter crap, Dean, and you know it!" Sam jumped to his feet. "You haven't been sleeping much, if at all."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"You're not sleeping, not eating. You look like you're about to fall over, man."

"What're you my keeper now?"

"Someone has to be!"

Dean's mask went from indifferent to bitter in the blink of an eye.

"Why? Because I'm weak, pathetic? Can't take care of myself?"

"If the shoe fits…" Sam wanted to bite off his tongue the second the words tripped and tumbled forth. His malapropos response was to the second half of his brother's statement, but he knew Dean wouldn't see it that way. He pinched the bridge of his nose and backtracked. "Dean, it's not that I think you CAN'T take care of yourself, but right now you're NOT taking care of yourself."

"Ah, hell. Screw this. I can't…I'm not getting into it again. You lie down and take a nap or do whatever the hell you want to do. I'm going to get the black pepper. I'll be back before it's time to go." His voice was low, throaty, as if he had to force it out around an obstruction. Dean fished the keys out of Sam's jacket that was still slung across the back of the chair, spun on his heel and headed for the door.

Sam sank down on the bed, steeped in a mixture of dejection and frustration, as his older sibling exited the motel room. It was odd, but he'd have felt much better if Dean had slammed the door behind him instead of easing it closed with an almost deadly quiet click.

(SN) (SN) (SN)

Dean stared at the dark brown beer bottle from which he had yet to take a drink, watching disinterestedly as it blurred in and out of focus. He didn't really want it. Wasn't sure why he'd even ordered it from the scruffy-looking bartender here at The Brick Bar other than to have something to keep his hands busy.

Reluctant to return to the motel room, Dean had stopped here after picking up the twelve cans of pepper (hoping twelve equaled 'lots of it') and a plastic bag to hold it all during the hunt from a convenience store up the road. It proved to be a folly. The music, though not terribly loud, was giving his headache a headache and the crush of people, surprising so early in the evening, was making him feel more than a little claustrophobic—the press of heat generated by all the bodies making him uncomfortable on more than just a physical level.

Yet here he sat, toying with a longneck bottle full of now-warm beer, avoiding the lure of a motel room bed and a little brother who either loved him or hated him. Dean was so turned upside down and inside out at this point that he didn't know—couldn't identify—which it was anymore. It made him queasy.

Dean was shaken from his self-imposed stupor by the sound of a voice off to his right. "You got it. One Short Trip to Hell coming up." To Dean's prejudiced ear, it sounded remarkably like Alastair.

(SN) (SN) (SN)

Sam sighed, rolled over, and KO'd his pillow with a single punch. Swearing, he threw a dirty look at the clock. After Dean's abrupt departure more than an hour ago, the young hunter had decided to go ahead and lay down, if not to actually sleep then to at least rest before traipsing through the woods tonight and hunting a potentially gluttonous beast. It proved to be a folly.

There was no sleeping, no resting. Not really. He'd closed his eyes then watched as a glut of images from the past few days—no, more like months—flickered across his internal movie screen. Sam watched as he tried to drown himself and his sorrows in the bottom of a bottle. Watched as Ruby offered him solace and a way out, only to become trapped in a web of lies. But worst of all, he watched his older brother struggle to adjust following his miraculous return from Hell.

He hated it all. His own lies and guilt. Even his thirst for vengeance. Dean's lies, his drinking, the nightmares. The only thing he didn't hate was his brother. Pissed at him? Sure. But he didn't—_couldn't_—hate him. Proving it to Dean, though, was seemingly impossible at this point.

Maybe it was a moot point anyway. It was quite possible that Dean hated him. After all, Sam was a monster, wasn't he?

(SN) (SN) (SN)

Dean's fingers curled around the bartender's wrist. "What did you just say?" His voice was a rumbling growl.

"Huh?"

The hunter tightened his grip, watching as the guy grimaced. "What did you just say—about Hell?" Dean's green eyes were diamond hard.

"Dude, chill! I was just telling the lady her drink would be right up." The bartender tugged against Dean's hold. "A Short Trip to Hell; it's a drink!"

Dean ignored the lady in question who was shooting him a perturbed look. He let go of the bartender. "A drink? Seriously?"

"Yeah, man." The scruffy guy rubbed at his sore wrist.

"What's in it?"

"A shot of Jagermeister, two ounces of peach Schnapps, two ounces of strawberry Schnapps, two ounces of wild berry Schnapps, and a can of Red Bull. You want one?"

Dean turned up his nose. "Nah. Too sweet. Too—"

"Girly?" The bartender chuckled as he assembled the drink, studiously ignoring the woman who'd ordered it.

"Yeah. But you know what? I will take a can of Red Bull."

"Want me to throw in a coupla ounces of Jagermeister and Silent Sam Vodka—make it a Red Rage?"

Dean wanted to laugh at the irony but was afraid if he started he might not stop. He shook his head. "Nah. I've had more than enough of that lately. I'll just take the Red Bull."

TBC…

* * *

A/N: Both of the drinks mentioned above are real drinks. When I researched and found those names, I couldn't believe my incredible luck. It's exactly what I was hoping for. It was like fate.


	6. Uh, Watch Where You Step

Okay, here's the next chapter, guys. Sorry, it's a short one. I originally was going to have it be a much longer chapter, but the writing is going slowly at the moment and I felt guilty for leaving everyone hanging for so long so I decided to get this one posted. It's unbeta'd (unlike the first five which were kindly beta'd by Bayre) so I apologize for any mistakes.

Vanessa

Sooooo, on with the show...

* * *

Sam came to a full stop as a rustle and thud sounded from behind him. The noise was followed by a softly muttered curse.

"Sonuvabitch."

Dusk had minutes ago given way to a deeper darkness not yet graced with moonrise. That murky in-between time bridging day and night. He pulled a small but powerful flashlight from the canvas pack at his waist, turned, and thumbed the switch; its yellowish-white beam locking on Dean almost instantaneously. "You okay?"

"Fine. Put away the damn…" Dean sighed, softened his tone, rocked back on his heels, "put away the flashlight."

His usually steady, sure-footed brother had stumbled twice already; this third time enough to land him on one knee. If Sam hadn't been worried before, and don't doubt he had been, he was really worried now. The only time he'd seen Dean like this was when he was flat out drunk, and even that was a rarity. Or had been before his return from Hell. Now he tipped the bottle—or flask—a bit too often for Sam's liking. Still—that wasn't the case here. Dean wasn't drunk. They'd established that fact, somewhat heatedly, after Dean mentioned his sojourn to the Brick Bar. No, Dean wasn't drunk. This was exhaustion, lack of food, stress. Any one was bad enough. All three combined was a recipe for eventual disaster. To put it simply, his big brother was driving himself into the ground—almost literally.

Sam held out a hand, honestly expecting Dean to completely ignore the offer of assistance. Therefore, he was surprised then when his brother grabbed his hand and allowed Sam to pull him to his feet.

Dean wavered for a moment then steadied. His knee stung from its encounter with the ground, his full weight behind it. "How much farther?"

"I talked to the fisherman who was mauled. He said to follow this path for about twenty minutes. When we get to the fork and take the left. Walk about another five minutes and we'd be in the area where he was attacked. The fork should be just ahead, I think."

The older hunter shivered, shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, one wrapping around the knife residing in its depths. "Great. Let's go."

They moved forward, deeper into the wooded area; Dean limping almost imperceptibly for a few steps until the throbbing in his knee abated.

It wasn't long before they came to the foretold fork and veered left. A few minutes later, the brothers arrived at a tiny clearing, more precisely a wide gap between four trees than anything. The waxing moon was out but not high enough yet to provide sufficient light so Sam once again pulled out his flashlight. The underbrush looked ragged and a couple of spots flattened. Sam squatted for a closer look and identified a few smears of dried blood. "Looks like this is it."

"You sure?" Dean squinted down at ground revealed in the small circle of light. "Doesn't look like much blood for a mauling."

"Yeah, well, between you, me, and that tree, after talking with the guy, I think mauling is slightly overstating it. Still the guy tangled with it and was able to give a pretty good description."

"So now we bait the area with fresh blood." Dean pulled the knife from his pocket and began to shrug an arm out of his jacket as he spoke.

"Yep. And if the Gulon's purged recently and is hungry, it should come looking."

Dean rolled up a sleeve and pulled the finely-honed blade across the soft flesh of his inner arm halfway between elbow and wrist. The blade bit deeper than strictly necessary, but he paid no attention. It didn't hurt. He chose a half a dozen places and allowed his blood to drip freely. When Dean was done, he rolled down his sleeve and slipped his arm back inside his coat before returning to Sam's side.

They moved to a small secluded area under a tree to wait. After a short while though, Dean grew increasingly restless. He fidgeted with his coat, ran his hands down denim-clad thighs, rocked back and forth heel to toe—the caffeine he'd ingested working against him. "Are we even sure this thing's still around?" he muttered sotto voce.

"It's found its happy hunting ground," Sam replied in the same low tone, "no real reason for it to move on."

Dean leaned against a tree and tried to still the trembling of his limbs. On one hand, he wanted nothing more than to sink to the ground in a heap, his body crying out for rest. On the other, the thought of closing his eyes and reliving the Siren incident in his head which grew increasing virulent upon each repetition left him more than a little nauseated. He locked his muscles and pushed away from the support. "I think we should expand our range."

"What?"

"I'm gonna widen the baited area a little." The older hunter pushed off into the night.

"Dean!" Sam hissed. He hesitated, unsure whether to stay put or follow. After a few seconds, Sam followed, his long-legged gait bringing him in proximity to his older brother fairly quickly.

"You shouldn't just take off like that, you know," he called softly.

"Just tryin' to move this hunt along, man." Dean glanced over his shoulder before maneuvering around the desiccated, hollow remains of a once mighty tree.

The night had lightened as the moon ascended, giving life to a myriad of deep and twisted shadows that danced in the brisk breeze. Sam cast his gaze around looking for any obvious signs the Gulon was in the vicinity but found none. He was just about to point this out when he heard Dean gasp. It was followed by another thud. He trotted toward the area just between two adjacent trees where he'd last spotted his brother, stopping just short of tripping over his prone form. "Dean?"

"Ow. Dammit. I slipped in something." Dean sat up slowly and lifted a hand as if to wipe it across his face but stopped abruptly, staring in disgust at the thick, slimy, mucous-like substance coating it. "What the hell?"

"I think we can safely say the Gulon is still around," announced Sam, keeping his voice very level.

"What makes you say that?"

"Because it…uh…apparently it recently…purged."

"How do you…wait a minute…are you telling me…" Dean squeezed his eyes shut. "I slipped in Gulon puke?"

Sam buried his nose in the crock of his elbow. "Um, yeah. That or Gulon…crap. The research really wasn't…uh…you know…clear on…that."

The smell hit Dean then and he gagged, scrambling away from the mess as quickly as he could. He pushed himself to his feet, brushing ineffectually at his clothes. "Damn, that reeks—what the hell has this thing been eating—skunk?"

"Anything it can find, but yeah, I think maybe it's been gnawing on a skunk or two." Sam listened to his brother curse and watched through watery eyes as Dean wiped away what he could with handfuls of leaves. "The good news…"

Dean interrupted with a muttered, "There's good news in this?"

"…the good news is since it recently purged, it's hungry, and…"

Sam's words were again cut off. This time by a deep, guttural growl nearby. Too nearby. Without further warning, the Gulon exploded from the shadows.

TBC…


	7. A Little Bit Like Steer Wrestling

My apologies for the long, long wait. This chapter was the hardest darn thing to write. I sat staring at blank screen (or paper) more often than I want to admit. I wanted this to be longer but at the same time, I didn't want to extend the wait, particularly since the last chapter ended on a cliffy. Therefore, I decided to end it where I did and get it posted. Forgive me for my continued chapter brevity.

Hope you all still enjoy it anyway. Oh, and it is unbeta'd so all errors are mine.

Vanessa

* * *

The Gulon came at Sam with impressive speed and hungry ferocity. Aiming for his throat, the creature's trajectory was a bit off and it hit him in the chest just low enough to catch his diaphragm, pushing air from his lungs. Sam cried out as the Gulon's claws raked across his chest and abdomen as it fought to gain purchase in soft flesh.

Dean blinked at the blur missiling toward his brother, heard the sound of flesh meeting flesh followed by the sickening sound of Sam's breathless exclamation. "Sam!"

He dove forward, grabbing at the Gulon's back haunches as he careened over his brother, managing to shove the creature off balance. Dean rolled as he hit the ground and struggled, first to his hands and knees then to his feet. The beast regained its feet more quickly and stood poised, ready to strike, between the men. It let out a menacing growl, similar to a cougar.

The older hunter pulled the bloody knife from his pocket. Waving it at the Gulon, he taunted, "C'mon, you overgrown kitty cat, come and get me." He pushed the flat of the blade against his arm, opening a fresh, shallow cut then watched the beast's nose twitch with interest. Its tongue lolled from the side of its mouth. The Gulon took a step forward. "Yeah, that's right. I'll taste real good. C'mon, Puss-in-Boots."

While Dean worked to keep the beast's attention focused on him, Sam finally regained his breath and his bearings to stand. He moved stealthily to position himself behind the creature.

For every step the Gulon advanced, Dean retreated—buying a little time until he saw his brother slide up behind it. He flicked his gaze to Sam, saw him nod, and angled his chin downward ever so slightly in response. Dean stopped in his tracks, anchored his feet in place, and waited.

He didn't have to wait long. The beast gathered itself to spring, muscles quivering. As soon as the Gulon was airborne, Dean sidestepped and reached out; the spur-of-the-moment plan being to more or less pluck it from the air and wrestle it to the ground. Unfortunately, his reflexes were dulled with fatigue. Dean misjudged his sidestep and the creature twisted in mid-air, catching him in the shoulder and spinning him around. His anchored feet, now a liability, tangled in some flora. He went down, grunting when his face connected with the ground.

Cursing, Dean rolled onto his back. Crimson blossomed from his nose, coated his lips, and dripped down his chin. Before he could move any further, the Gulon pounced, landing on his chest with a thud and a triumphant yowl. Golden eyes glimmered with both pleasure and menace. It bared an impressive mouthful of grayish teeth, fangs dripping with viscous saliva. It hissed then practically guffawed as if in celebration. A cloud of noxious, clotted-blood, rotted-meat breath bathed Dean's face. He gagged—that smell plus the coppery-metallic taste of blood too much for his system. A burning flicker of panic settled in his gut. Sweat broke out across his skin despite the cold night air.

A split second later he let out a yell as the razor-sharp tips of the Gulon's claws pierced through clothes then skin. Dean was just raising an arm to block the creature's mouth as it descended toward his throat when its weight suddenly disappeared. He heard Sam mutter "I don't think so" as he and the Gulon tumbled to the ground. Anything else he might have said was drowned out by the demented bellow emitted by the angry preternatural animal.

Having executed the same tackle technique Dean had used earlier, Sam was able to entwine his fingers into the scruff of the Gulon's neck as they hit the ground and rolled. His luck held for once and the creature was trapped underneath him when they came to a stop. That didn't deter it from trying to escape. Sam grimaced and grunted as the powerful beast bucked wildly beneath him, knocking hard against his ribs. He adjusted his grip and held on tight.

"D-Dean," he panted, "get the pepper!"

The older Winchester, who had only made it to his knees, shook his head to clear the buzzing in his ears and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth, clearing away some of the blood.

"Dean! C'mon, hurry!" Sam yelped as a jerking limb caught him just below his bellybutton. He resisted the urge to close his eyes.

Gathering himself, Dean finally rose and hurried to his brother's side. Leaning into the fray, he reached for the leather fanny pack at Sam's waist where the bag of pepper had been stored. His fingers slipped off the zipper as Sam's body jerked and rolled away slightly. A pained cry from his younger brother spurred him into moving quickly to grab for it once more. He met with success, his tacky fingers closing around the metal pull. Jerking the zipper to the right, Dean reached in the pouch and grabbed the zip-locked bag full of ground black pepper, pulling it roughly from its confines.

"Got it! Open its mouth, Sam!" Dean kneeled near the creature's head.

Sam, who'd been squeezing the muzzle shut up to that moment, reversed his hold and pried the Gulon's jaws open, fingers slipping in the foamy saliva. It snarled and bucked harder. Sam's grip suddenly loosened, and he barely managed to snatch his fingers out of the way before the beast's teeth snapped together. "Dammit!" he breathlessly swore.

The Gulon freed a front leg and thrashed, large paw catching Dean high in the chest, knocking him off balance. The tip of one nail sliced a shallow scratch across his neck. It beaded with bright red blood. Ignoring the new sting, he dove forward and managed to pin the errant leg to the ground with his knee.

Meanwhile, Sam shoved his fingers back into the monster's mouth and pried the jaws open with all his might. "Go! Go! Go!" he yelled.

Needing no further prompting, Dean tore the zipped bag open and poured the peppery flakes down the Gulon's gullet. He kept pouring until the bag was empty.

For several seconds nothing happened. Then the creature let out a choked, unearthly, and incredibly hair-raising howl and began to seize beneath Sam. An odd crackling sound emanated from within the Gulon. The brothers threw themselves backward, away from the creature and its apparent death throes. Both pairs of eyes remained locked on the body as it jerked, twitched, and convulsed. Then, in a flash of hellish, preternatural orange flame, the Gulon immolated before their eyes.

TBC…


	8. Chick Flick Crash

Well, here we are, folks, the last chapter. Hope everyone's enjoyed the ride.

Vanessa

* * *

Sam closed his eyes against the bright super-heated flash of red, orange, and blue as the Gulon burst into flames. A foul, unnatural odor hung heavy in the air as the creature burned. The young hunter bit back a gag at the stench. Deciding it was high time to get the hell out of there, he turned to say just that to his brother but the words died a swift death on his lips. Wide-eyed, Dean stared raptly into the conflagration, a frighteningly blank look on his face. By the firelight, his complexion looked milk white overlaid with twisting soot shadows.

"Dean?"

There was no response. In fact, from where Sam sat, a foot or so away, it didn't appear that he was even breathing. Worried, he reached out and nudged Dean's shoulder, falling back in surprise when his brother gasped and scuttled away from him.

"Dean, man, c'mon—what's wrong?"

The older Winchester finally turned and looked at him and for a split second a sheen of black terror filmed his green eyes. It was gone between one blink and the next.

"Dean?"

Dean's gaze immediately dropped to the rough ground beneath them. "S-Sorry. I…uh…it…" he rubbed a hand down his face, "it just reminded me of…something."

_Yeah. Hell. Or something in Hell. _Sam's forehead wrinkled in a frown of distress, as always, troubled by hints of what his brother had been forced to endure.

Misinterpreting Sam's frown as disgust, or worse, disappointment, Dean muttered, "C'mon, let's get out of here." He attempted to rise, wobbled, and landed back on his butt as the world around him did a slow roll. "Shit."

Sam gained his feet and tentatively held out a hand. "Want some help?" His brother took him up on the offer and Sam pulled Dean to his feet, held on long enough for him to steady. "You good?"

Dean swallowed. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good." He took a deep breath, wincing as a number of aches and pains shouted their presence. He glanced one final time at the charred remains of the Gulon. It was beginning to trend toward grayish-white ash. "Let's get out of here."

They made their way slowly through the woods to where the Impala sat by the side of the road, midnight paint blending with the darkness and chrome gleaming in the silver moonlight. A stiff breeze kicked up, agitating the bare branches of the trees.

As Dean automatically made his way toward the driver's side, Sam announced, "I think I should drive."

"What?"

"Let me drive back to the motel."

Dean opened his mouth to argue, but a shiver raked its way down his spine. In that moment, he decided he hadn't the strength or wherewithal to do verbal battle. Instead he shrugged, dug the keys from his pocket, and tossed them at Sam. They landed about a foot to Sam's left.

The brothers sank into the car, both relishing the soft leather seats not to mention the safety and reassurance the vehicle itself represented. The drive back to the motel was quiet. If Sam had hoped Dean would be lulled to sleep, he was destined to be sorely disappointed. Numerous surreptitious glances revealed that his brother sat rigid in the passenger seat for the entire trip.

Sam grabbed the first aid kit from the trunk before following his brother into the motel room. Once inside, he quickly began to strip away his layers, anxious to get to wounds that throbbed and burned in numerous places. "Man, that thing sure had some freakin' sharp claws." As his bare torso came into view, a sharply indrawn breath drew his attention to Dean. "What?"

The older Winchester eyed the bloody, inflamed scratches. "It got you good."

"Yeah. Stupid thing took a chunk outta my hand too." Sam opened the kit and pulled out both the bottle of holy water and hydrogen peroxide along with some gauze. "How bad did it get you?" When Dean didn't answer, the young hunter halted his ministrations and glanced at him, noticing his stillness and blank stare. "Dean?" His brother blinked and Sam saw his eyes refocus.

"Huh?"

"I asked how bad the Gulon got you."

"Oh. Umm…I dunno—I don't think it got me. I don't feel anything. I should've moved faster and not let it mess you up like that."

Ignoring the last part of Dean's statement, Sam responded with concern, "I know it got you, I heard you yell." It was then Sam noticed drops of slipping off Dean's fingers. "Take off your coat and shirt."

"What? Why?"

"You're bleeding pretty good. I need to check it out."

Dean lifted his hands, blinked at them. "Oh." He slowly slipped out of his jacket and long-sleeved shirt.

Sam gaped at Dean's arm and hurried to his brother's side. "Holy shit, Dean! How deep did you cut? You were only supposed to make a shallow cut."

"They are shallow!"

"No. What the hell were you doing? A couple of these need stitches. Sit down." Sam pushed Dean down onto the bed, felt the tremors coursing through his body. Stepping away, he grabbed what he needed from the first aid kit and returned to Dean's side. After cleaning with peroxide, and holy water just to be on the safe side, Sam threaded the curved suture needle and efficiently stitched the deeper wounds on his brother's arm. After easing him out of his t-shirt, Sam cleaned the rest of the wounds he found, relieved that none of the rest were too serious. Dean had already lost enough blood. With a 'You're all set' pat to Dean's shoulder, Sam went back to taking care of his own wounds.

"Y-You need help with that?"

"No." The word was terser than he'd meant it to be as he was focused on what he was doing. Sam missed the flash of hurt that flickered across Dean's face.

A rustling caught Sam's attention as he closed up the medical kit. He looked over to see Dean packing his duffel bag. "What're you doing?"

"Packing. Time to hit the road."

"What the hell? No way."

"Why? We're done here."

"We are not hitting the road. Dammit, Dean, look at yourself—you're shaking, you can't see straight, you're even slurring your words. You're so damn tired you can barely hold yourself upright."

Sam's words were absolute truth, but Dean bristled anyway. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine! You _need_ to sleep."

"Why don't you drive then?"

"'Cause I'm tired too and I don't want to drive. We're not going anywhere."

"Fine. You stay here then. I'm taking off."

"How? I still have the keys and I'm not giving them to you."

"I'll hotwire her."

"Yeah, right. In your current state, you'll butcher the Impala and you know it."

Dean's breath hitched at the unfortunate choice of words.

Sam grimaced and ran his hands through his hair. "I didn't mean it like that." He growled in frustration. "Why won't you just get some sleep, man? Even if it's just a few hours. I don't understand! Is this just you being ridiculously stubborn? Is it to prove a point? What?" His own fatigue was wearing on him. He kicked at the table leg.

"I can't."

Dean's reply was so soft, Sam didn't catch it. "What?"

"I can't. Sleep, I mean. You think I haven't tried, Sam?" There was defeat in Dean's tone and his gaze was locked on the carpet.

"I don't understand."

"I try. I get comfortable; I close my eyes, but…"

"But?"

"I…I hear you. I hear those words…from the Siren thing…over and over again. They don't stop. Won't stop. No matter what I do." He began to pace, his steps unsteady as the room began a slow spin.

Sam's heart sank at the pain he heard in Dean's choked words. "Dean, I…"

"The nightmares…the nightmares—man, they just prove what you said is true. I'm weak and I'm scared. And you get to see that proof every time I fall asleep. I can't stop it. I can't control them."

And there it was. There was the reason Dean refused to sleep. Sam dropped his face into his hands well aware once more how much torment he'd inflicted with the Siren's help. He dropped his hands and looked at his brother. "Dean, I know apologizing again won't help. But I…I…the words, yes, technically they were true. But not in any way like they sounded when I was under the influence of the Siren… I swear to you, Dean, you're still the big brother I've always admired—still the big brother I've always loved. I…"

The spinning of the room got to be too much, and Dean sank down on the edge of his bed. "I'm tired, Sammy."

Sam suspected there was a wealth of meaning behind those words beyond the obvious one. "I know you are. That's why you should sleep."

"I really don't feel all that good."

His brother was finally crashing. Sam moved to help him lay down. "You haven't been eating, and now you've lost some blood. That's probably not helping."

"I don't want to dream." It was said on a pleading sigh as Dean's eyes fluttered closed.

Sam eased down on the bed next to Dean so that his hip and Dean's shoulder lightly touched. "I know. Maybe I can keep the nightmares at bay for awhile."

A few seconds ticked by. "Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you like prairie dogs?"

Taken aback by the strange question, Sam shrugged. "I dunno. Yeah, I guess. Why?"

"No reason." And with that Dean was out. Hopefully for a good number of hours.

Sam eased back against the headboard with a weary moan. Yeah, the ground beneath their feet was shaky at best, the promise of upheaval present no matter how steadfast they tried to remain. But for now they were at least standing on it together. At this moment, it was all he could ask.

_**FIN**_


End file.
